Fortitude
by ThePointGirl
Summary: Fortitude. A mass noun meaning courage in pain or adversity. Saving your teammate, someone you care for, even when you are in agony and moving is difficult, is something that few men can do. Clint Barton is one of them. A Clint Barton and Steve Rogers FF.


**Title: **Fortitude

**Warnings: **Uhm... slash if you squint. Well, in my opinion anyhow.

**Notes:** Wrote this in an hour for a friend of mine as a writing task. Enjoy.

* * *

[**Fortitude. **_A mass noun meaning __**courage in pain or adversity**__._

Origin: Middle English. French from Latin _fortitudo_, from _fortis_ 'strong']

Clint blinked; twisting in the debris and then howling in pain because _fuck that hurt._ He couldn't feel his left arm, only knowing it was there due to it being caught underneath his body. There's a very warm, slick, slide, around the area of his abdomen and his brain adjusts. He knew what that feeling was, he knew what blood _felt _like. His head rested on the dirt and rubble, pushing, pressing onto the wound and whimpering. In Astana, Kazakhstan, three years ago, he had a bullet wound and he patched it up with duct-tape. Coulson had gone spare when he learned of that. Right now, he had no tape, no exit, no nothing and he couldn't see. He coughed, his right hand slippery with red, irony blood and he cleaned it on the underside of his thigh. His bow was fuck knows where. Stark was going to kill him. It was a very recent upgrade.

Clint's breathing elevated - he was alone. He blinked, his eyes glassy, reminding him of Loki bluing his heart. _He was never alone_. There was always Coulson, medics, Natasha, someone! His left arm had a dull ache to it that crept from his elbow up to his shoulder. Clint willed his breath slower, and his head smacked a bit of what might have been wall once and –

'_Hawkeye!' Cap's voice shouted, ordered, warning him. Rogers had been in front of him, entering the premises, jumping over a crate in that way he did. They had eliminated four soldiers, Clint had turned back to Cap who wasn't there - instead he got hit with a 9mm. On his way down, he clipped the guy, but he fell awkwardly. He heard the snap of his arm. Two explosions, one muted, one ripping straight through the warehouse. It had all gone dark then._

'Hawkeye? Do you copy?!' and Clint opened his eyes. That was Tony on the comm.

'Yeah… Copy. I'm hit'

'Shit. How bad?'

'Bullet wound in my gut. I'm losing blood'

'None of us are near you. Hang on – where's Cap?'

Clint stilled. Dammit. The warehouse was dead calm: bodies lay feet away from him, like the drugs den in Iraq in '09.

'I don't know. He was with me I-' Clint began to panic. He felt helpless, useless, and Tony's voice was etched with concern.

'Listen Legolas. Don't move from your position. Use whatever supplies you got and stay low. I'll come to you when I can. It's a little hectic over here' and there was a screeching crash, and the comm link went blank.

Clint did as he was told, finding not duct tape but a bandage that might hold the bleeding. His hands shook all the while but he managed. He pushed himself into a sitting position. Luckily he missed most of the rubble in the explosion and he scanned the room. No sign of red, white and blue. Hell. He used the remains of a table to hoist himself to a standing position. This was why he preferred being up high, in the shadows, instead of down in the mess and confusion. Ignoring Tony's orders (like he listened to most people anyway) he limped around the room carefully. Picking up his thigh holstered gun which was abandoned on the floor required an enormous effort. He managed. Amongst the bodies, Clint spotted floppy blond hair. His abdominal muscles screamed in pain when he checked.

Captain America. Steve Rogers.

Clint bent his knees, disregarding the shooting pain that stabbed into his –what maybe his liver – and saw the problem. A hole had formed in the explosion, and the lower half of Steve's body hung like a limp doll, threatening to drop into the basement. If he did he would break his neck surely. Clint could see he was hurt badly too, the wood floor panelling was digging into him.

'Cap. Captain. Steve' Clint tried to no avail. Shit. Clint checked his pulse. It was there. Steve was fine in a theoretical sense at least. So, Clint leaned forward and pulled. That did it. Clint's wound stretched and he held back the cry he wanted to let out, he could feel the silver bullet just resting there where it shouldn't be. More importantly though, Cap woke up, flailed and it took all of Clint's strength not to drop him.

'I got you, Captain' he said, breathing through his nose, the sweat coiling at the base of his neck.

'Clint?' Steve frowned and he begun to take in everything around him, blue eyes wide and hard but scared. 'Are you okay?' Steve asked.

'Yeah. Can you help me pull you up? Anything hurt?' Clint asked and Steve shook his head. Clint was lucky, his black uniform meant blood was hard to notice, especially in the light they had. The super soldier, frowned, leaning on his elbows and swinging like an acrobat would in order to gain leverage. Clint grabbed at the back of Steve's belt, wincing, but heaving the man onto firmer ground. They tumbled and Steve rolled away.

'Clint –'

Thwack. Thwack. Whir.

Reinforcements. Fuck. They needed to move if they were going to get out of here.

Steve had found his shield in the time Clint had taken his eyes off him. He hated having hearing like his, he hated the dread of knowing what was coming. Before Clint could say anything, there was a humming sound that Clint knew all too well, like the roar of the Hulk, the swish of Cap's shield. It was the sound of Iron Man's repulsors. Steve darted forward, helping Clint to his feet. Both men stopped. It had gone quiet again.

Clink, clink, clink.

'What did I tell you about moving? Hmm? Why does no one listen to me in this team' and Clint let out a strangled noise of relief. Iron Man flew in through the door, hovering, faceplate opening and glowering at Clint with annoyance that really Clint should be taking as a compliment right about now, but nope.

'What -Tony?' Steve asked as Tony powered down, thumping as metal clashed with wood. Clint worried in his now slightly hazy mind (thing's had gone a little blurry) that the floor was going to give way.

'Cap, Hawkeye didn't listen. I told him to stay down. He's shot in the abdomen but he had to ….'

Clint stopped listening, holding his left arm in a position he'd been taught to with breakages (he hated S.H.I.E.L.D doctors). He was getting quite sick of the world blacking out on him, but was gone out cold before he hit the ground for the second time.

Opening his eyes, he regretted it instantly and closed them. There was bright, bright light and everything was clean and that meant only one thing. He was alive and at HQ. He palmed subconsciously at the wound, raising his head from the puffed-up pillows to look down, seeing a tight white bandage, expertly applied. He was on meds, obviously, his tongue felt a little heavy and there was softness around everything if he focused on it too long. His left arm was in a cast and sling, and felt really fucking weird but he wasn't going to question it. He still didn't know how long it took him to realise he wasn't the only one in the room. Steve Rogers sat in one of the curved-back chairs to his left, and met his gaze with a kind smile.

'Welcome back' he said and Clint nodded dumbly.

'Yeah. Was it – did we all get out?' he asked. Steve inclined his head.

'Yes. You collapsed but evac got to you and Tony helped. You've been unconscious for two weeks now,' Steve said, his brow furrowing, shoulders locking in place. Two weeks. Fuck, before Budapest he would've completed three separate missions in that time frame.

'Clint, you should have stayed down,' Steve said.

'Are you freakin' kidding me? And bleed out on the floor? Hell no' Clint mumbled. The thought scared him. Alone like that.

'You got me out. I wouldn't of been able to if it weren't for you. You were in real pain but you found me.' Steve sounded confused, and Clint drew his head back onto the pillows. He didn't understand what was so problematic about this. 'Thank you'. Clint tried to grin.

'Coulson would murder me if I left you there' Clint said and Steve grimaced somewhat. 'Plus, I couldn't lie there knowing you were somewhere on the floor possibly dead. I go on solo missions a lot but I can watch out for other people. Yeah, it hurt, a part of me wanted to curl up and wish the pain would go away, but I couldn't do that' Clint said, fiddling with the IV tube in irritation.

'That means a lot' and Steve suddenly brightened, changing the subject. 'Oh- you have get well cards' he motioned to the bed table and Clint sat up, struggling. He frowned.

'What even?...'

Steve innocently shrugged, but helped Clint to open them. There was one from Pepper, Bruce, Tony (man, Stark was losing his touch: Hey Legolas, get up and moving before I buy the coffee shop you like so much out of boredom.), Nat (which just read: Get Well. Moron. Xxx) and Coulson.

There wasn't one from…

'You didn't get me a card?' Clint asked, feigning offence.

'No. I'm sorry' Steve said honestly, before getting up and placing a small brown paper, makeshift, booklet on the table. Clint opened the first page.

_Dear Clint,_

_You belong in the Avengers even when you think you don't. You show a strength that none of us have. What you did for me, what you risked, won't be forgotten. You're part of this dysfunctional family and over the last two weeks we've all missed you, it's shown. The tower is quieter. I gathered some of my sketches I have of you, and they are yours to keep and do whatever you deem necessary. _

_Please rest and get well._

_With love,_

_Capt. Steve Rogers._

Clint turned the page seeing a drawing of himself at the range, the arrow caught in mid-flight. He turned the second page, and the third. Some of these were not drawn from real life poses but they were brilliant. Steve could always see the good in people; he captured something on paper that most people couldn't pinpoint or say out loud.

'Better than a card any day' Clint said, smiling up at Steve who grinned back.

'Glad you like them. Coulson said he would stop by once he had a moment' Steve said, reaching out to lay a hand on the spot between Clint's neck and his shoulder. The pad of Steve's thumb brushed the flesh just below his Adam's apple, making Clint want to swallow on reflex. The other man's gaze fixated on the movement before his eyes snapped up to meet Clint's, his expression open and wary.

'Get well' he said simply, and left without another word.

Clint returned his attention to the booklet, admiring the work, flattered that there were over twelve sketches of him by himself. The detail. The care. Clint shut the booklet with a swipe of his good hand, and spotted something on the front cover. He had assumed at first glance that the page was blank, the sedatives messing with his brain and vision, but he was wrong.

In small, concise lettering in the bottom corner were the words –

_For Clint Barton. A man with fortitude._

* * *

Review if you like it :)_  
_


End file.
